


Hierarchy

by the_ragnarok



Series: Happy Endings [7]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-19
Updated: 2011-01-19
Packaged: 2017-10-16 01:31:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/167004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/pseuds/the_ragnarok
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Arthur isn't taken seriously enough, except by Eames.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hierarchy

If Eames were at all inclined toward academical research, he might well have written a treatise on the subject of social status as expressed through supposedly non-sexual flirting.

That is to say, honestly, he's only trying to look macho when he slaps Arthur on the arse.

Eames does not, as a rule, make a habit of trying to appear macho. He is perfectly secure in his gender identity, thank you for asking. But the client is something of an ol' boy, suffice to say, and Eames establishing his dominance, blah blah, serves better to earn his trust than Arthur's best show of competence.

Arthur's still smoldering about that later, and Eames doesn't blame him in the least. Arthur is, in Eames' wholly unbiased opinion, one of the best professionals of their chosen field, and anyone who doesn't appreciate him is a sad, sad twit who will never rank high in Eames' esteem.

Therefore, Eames tries his best to be solicitous, as much as Arthur lets him. Which is pitifully little, really, everything considered. Arthur doesn't even let Eames make him coffee in public anymore. Eames would pout, except that isn't allowed either.

And, all right, Eames does have to pretend to be a professional adult every now and then. Terribly tedious, but needs must.

They're rooming together for this job, and that, at least, is a relief. Eames is aware that having Arthur in his line of sight but out of touching range does horrible things to his temper. And to Eames' as well, come to think of it. Having a few hours, at least, to themselves, to let out some of the pressure – it's beginning to prove veritably necessary to Eames' sanity.

Arthur is still angry when they reach their room. Eames considers his options. Quite possibly the best thing to do would be to vanish for an hour or so, let Arthur work through his frustrations in peace. But they've had so little time alone, lately, snatched between too-frequent jobs and furtively hidden from prying eyes. Eames is loath to let go, even for an hour, when it's not absolutely vital.

His second-best course, probably, is to offer some balm to Arthur's pride. He could go on his knees for Arthur; but that is hardly an altruistic gesture, coming from Eames, and will not serve.

He's mulling over some ideas when the obvious strikes him. Of course. Eames turns to Arthur, who is undressing and folding everything away meticulously.

Eames says, "I have been awfully rude, haven't I?"

Arthur doesn't even look at him to say yes. That is not a good sign. Eames carries on regardless. "Perhaps you should teach me the error of my ways."

That, at least, gets Arthur's attention. He raises his eyes, looks at Eames briefly, and shakes his head just a little.

Eames sits down on the bed, careful not to disturb Arthur's folded clothes in their tidy pile. Arthur doesn't move away when Eames leans his head against Arthur's thigh. Eames takes some encouragement from this.

He wouldn't play these games for anyone, before. But Arthur's in his own category, and so Eames says, "I'll beg you for it if you want me to," soft and entirely free of pretense.

Arthur's hand comes down to tighten in Eames' hair, and he allows himself to grin into Arthur's thigh. Now, _that's_ more like it.

"I don't want that," Arthur says, quiet but nothing like soft. "Stand up."

Eames does. Arthur looks... not quite angry anymore. Tense, perhaps, would better describe him, the long straight lines of his limbs, naked but never vulnerable; elegant and deadly, that's his Arthur.

"No? So what can I do for you, darling?" Eames draws out the endearment, feeling it roll of his tongue.

Arthur squares his shoulders. "Finish what you started," he says. He turns to brace himself against the wall, head bowed. Eames has to blink because for a moment he sees only white due to sheer, unadulterated lust.

He's there by the wall before he can even think, his hands on Arthur, because he doesn't _need_ to think. There is no consideration involved; if Arthur wants Eames to touch him, Eames will. Every time. All the time.

His hand is on Arthur's lower back, rubbing a circle, and he bends to nip at the back of Arthur's neck because that never fails to get a reaction. The pattern holds, and so does Arthur, hands pressing against the wall until the tips of his fingers turn white.

Eames breathes a "Yeah?" into Arthur's ear, pushing with his hand so that Arthur has to make an effort to stay where he is. Not much of an effort, he doesn't want to shove Arthur around (well, unless Arthur asks, which he hasn't). Arthur likes pressure, steady and firm, likes it everywhere on his skin but most particularly on his wrists; and Eames is reminded.

"I completely forgot," he says, keeping his voice light even though that makes Arthur growl. "I brought you a present, darling, would you like to see?"

"A present," Arthur says, flatly. Eames winces a little. He's losing Arthur a little by talking, by stepping out of the script, but he's sure it will be worth it.

Eames kisses Arthur's shoulder, slow and lingering. He leaves Arthur only for a brief moment, rummaging through his bag, until he can come back and present Arthur with the restraints.

Arthur is eying them a little doubtfully. Then he's eying Eames. "Seriously?"

"Try," Eames says, shrugging. "I can probably find something else to do with them if you don't like them."

Unexpected, Arthur flashes a smile at him, and all right, _this_ right there is Eames' favorite of Arthur's expression, this smile that's equal parts gleeful and challenging.

"Give me your best shot," Arthur says. He's moving over to put his hands on the bedpost so Eames can tie him up and Eames loves him so, so much, more than he thought was physically possible.

It's pretty obvious, though, that there will be no need to find the restraints a new home. Almost as soon as he closes them over Arthur's wrists Eames sees Arthur's eyes sliding half-shut, his mouth slightly open so that Eames is hard pressed not to lick into it.

Although, thinking of that, there is absolutely no reason Eames _shouldn't_ lick into it. He kisses Arthur then, slow and deep, Arthur's bound hands flexing against the bedpost.

Then Arthur blinks, visibly forcing himself into actual verbalized thought. "Are you?"

Eames is not completely sure that he's on with the program. "Am I what?"

"Going to spank me," Arthur says, irritation snapping him a little out of his haze. Eames would feel sorry for that except that – oh, right, he _can't_ actually read minds, and Arthur would do well to stop expecting Eames to know what he wants by some sort of black magic.

Admittedly, Eames has not made the best case for this, considering how much effort he puts into deciphering Arthur's wants and his tell-tale little secrets (that twitch of his leg, hastily reigned in, the cadence of his breath that signifies _yes, this_ ). Still, Eames is allowed a little indulgence, isn't he?

Ah. But Arthur has made a request now. So lovely of him. Eames should not keep him waiting.

"Of course," Eames says, and lands the flat of his hand heavily on Arthur's arse.

He doesn't even know why Arthur's gasp floors him like it does, why the sudden flush on Arthur's face nearly gets him to hump Arthur's perfect, freshly reddened backside. It's not like this is unpredictable, like Eames hasn't seen Arthur let go a thousand times and more already.

When Arthur arches his back and mutters, "More," Eames is almost too weak at the knees to comply.

 _Almost_ , happily, is not _enough_ ; Eames retains his strength sufficiently to give Arthur what he asks for, hard smacks falling in rhythm until Arthur's breathing, "No, no, don't," the way he does when he doesn't mean a word of it.

Still, Eames can never stop himself from worrying, and so he halts, giving Arthur a chance to breathe, a chance to make Eames stop by force of word or shove. Arthur just stands there, panting, so Eames goes back into it before Arthur can marshal an impatient glare to aim at him.

It stops, in the end, not because Arthur asks or even because Eames' hand is tired, but because if Eames spends another minute without Arthur's cock in his mouth he may perish right there on the spot. He slides down to his knees, not even stopping to untie Arthur's hands, and swallows Arthur down, the familiar comfort of him in Eames' mouth heady and welcome beyond words.

Eames tries to hold himself off until Arthur comes, really he does, but Arthur looks so undone over him that Eames cannot help himself. He comes at the first taste of Arthur's skin, pulsing into his own hand where it's tucked tight inside his pants, almost heedless of it because Arthur is thrusting into his mouth and that takes precedence.

It takes Arthur a little longer to come, which Eames does not mind in the least. Then there is getting up and untying and, oh yes, Eames needs to undress and make at least an attempt at saving the dignity of his trousers.

Oh, trousers be damned. Arthur is relaxed now, lying on the bed blissful and boneless, and Eames can't think of anything in the world he'd like better than to scoop Arthur up and hold him, just like that, until they fall asleep.

The good thing about Eames' life, these days, is how very often he gets to do the things he wants more than anything in the world.


End file.
